


(Just Let Go) 'Til You Are Home

by dizzzylu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been gone for two months, traipsing around campus while Derek carves out a life for himself in Beacon Hills, quiet and unassuming, and apparently, Derek has gotten used to the lack of Stiles in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Just Let Go) 'Til You Are Home

**Author's Note:**

> There was supposed to be some size kink in here. Unfortunately, things went horribly awry (read: I CANNOT DO PORN WITHOUT THE FEELS /o\\)
> 
> Thanks to kriari and blue_fjords for their encouragement and beta skills. I made a few changes after they got their hands on it, so any remaining mistakes are my own!

The body in his bed smells different. 

It's not a strange smell, not entirely, just different; it's the smell of friends and customers, books and coffee, teachers and glass cleaner, cigarette smoke and fried foods. It's the life Stiles leads now, his days revolving around school and work and school. But underneath it all, it's still Stiles; a little boyish yet, with a hint of sweet grass and dank forest, coffee and the bitter hint of Adderall.

He looks small, face down in the middle of Derek's bed, drowning in the sea of the thick cream-colored comforter. His hair is a dark smudge in the middle of it, longer than it was at the end of the summer, when Stiles left for UC Berkeley, but not so long that he hasn't cut it since; the decision to grow it out is a recent thing. Or, possibly, Stiles has been too busy to keep it buzzed. It looks soft and thick, a little wind blown.

Derek rounds the bed to find Stiles' legs hanging over the edge at awkward angles, and he huffs an amused sigh, nudges Stiles' messenger bag over with his toe, and slips Stiles' jeans off before pushing at his hip, urging his legs onto the bed so Stiles won't get a crick in his back. The misshapen backwards 'L' he's become doesn't look much more comfortable, but it's good enough until Derek can wash up and climb into bed, making it easier for him to manhandle Stiles into a better position.

Before he heads off into the bathroom, though, he notices a sliver of pale skin between the waistband of Stiles' boxer briefs and the rucked up hem of his overshirt. Hands flat on the bed on either side of Stiles' hips, Derek leans down and noses at it, drinking in the raw scent of Stiles, tasting it with the flat of his tongue. Stiles curls up on himself, giggling a little in his sleep, and Derek brushes his stubbled chin over the wet skin, just to see the goosebumps appear.

Derek has to wash his hands four times to get the grease and soot off. By then, Stiles is stretched out along Derek's side of the bed, arms tight around one of Derek's pillows. Even in sleep, his brain doesn't shut down enough for his mouth to stop working, and he mutters things into the pillows Derek can't make sense of. 

"Stop licking my ear, Todd."

"Everybody to the main gate! They've launched their attack!"

"Elinor, put down the paddle."

Derek shakes his head, amused.

It doesn't take Derek long to peel out of his undershirt and jeans, and then he slides into the bed behind Stiles, reaching for Stiles' wrists so he can unbutton the sleeves and work him out of the overshirt. Stiles' arms are a dead weight, dropping to the mattress as soon as they're free, but it's enough to wake Stiles a little, and he rolls over to face Derek, fingers scratching lightly at his chest hair.

"M'tired," he slurs -- _whines_ \-- voice thick with exhaustion and the yawn stuck in his throat. 

Derek cringes away from the blast of warm, sour breath. "Had to take it off. You'll get hot otherwise."

"Your fault," Stiles mutters.

"I know." Truthfully, Derek is tired, too. He's had a busy day with appointments all over town. And though it's later than either of them wanted it to be, he's glad to be home now, with Stiles, even if it's only for a couple of days.

Derek's so intent on tracing the line of Stiles' spine with his palm, fingers coming closer and closer to the soft pile of hair, that he misses Stiles' muttered question.

"What?" he says, hands sinking into dark hair and fisting it, using it to tilt Stiles' head back. His eyes are still closed, but his mouth is soft and open. Derek nips at the lower lip.

"Where y'been?" Stiles asks again. Then adds, "You were late."

"Mrs. Lancaster."

Stiles grunts a little, eyebrows forming a tiny furrow. "What was it this time?"

"Furnace."

"She's only using you for your body, you know." Stiles attempts to pinch Derek's nipple, Derek thinks, but misses and gets him in the ribs instead. Derek stifles a chuckle and wraps his fingers around Stiles' wrist, thumb resting against the pulse, to pull it back to his chest.

"I know what she wants, Stiles," Derek says, voice soft and firm,"but she's never going to get it." He sucks on Stiles' lower lip to make his point. 

"It's not right, though. Objectifying you like that. Especially when she's forty years older than you, at least!" Stiles' eyes still aren't open and his nails are digging into Derek's skin, but he looks adorable anyway, cheeks rosy with indignation, his lips a plump pout. 

Not that Derek would ever call Stiles adorable out loud. He prefers his arms remain attached to his body.

Stiles is a long, stiff line all along Derek's body, tension and stress held tight in every part of him, but all it takes is the wide sweep of Derek's palm up and down Stiles' spine to loosen it up, bit by bit, and that's when Stiles starts to fidget, fueled by irritation and what Derek suspects is extreme over-exhaustion. Derek's lack of response doesn't help, either, but he's fairly certain Stiles is working through the last of the caramel macchiato Derek can smell on his breath and not entirely aware of what he's arguing about anyway.

"She is going to jump you one day," Stiles says, eyes open now, wide and honest and only a little wild. His fingers clutch at Derek's hip, like Derek is trying to get away, and Stiles' legs are moving, bumping into Derek's knees and shins. Derek pins them down with one of his own and cradles Stiles' skull in the palm of his hand. His thumb fits into the space behind Stiles' ear and he rubs the thin skin there, a careful, steady pressure that turns Stiles' blinks longer and longer.

"Stiles," Derek says, firm. He waits for Stiles' gaze to skitter over his face before finally stopping on Derek's mouth. Stiles' tongue is a dull pink in the moonlight, darting out to wet his lips.

"Yeah?"

"Sleep."

"You know I was sleeping before you came in, right?" The question is muffled around a wide yawn, and he rubs his heel against Derek's calf, pushing the hair up against the grain.

Derek leans in close, takes Stiles' lower lip between his teeth, and tugs. 

Stiles makes a soft sound, nuzzles his face into the pillow. His hand finally loosens its hold on Derek's hip and he mumbles, "Yeah, okay. Sleep," into Derek's chest.

They do.

| |

It's Stiles' heartbeat that rouses Derek from sleep. 

There's nothing wrong with it; it's not racing or slowing or doing anything weird. It's still whole and steady and a tick too fast, the same way Stiles is always a half-beat ahead. It's just different. New in the way it shouldn't be, because Stiles has been gone for two months, traipsing around campus while Derek carves out a life for himself in Beacon Hills, quiet and unassuming, and apparently, Derek has gotten used to the lack of Stiles in his bed.

Luckily, it seems Stiles has not made that same adjustment. His fingers are tangled with Derek's, palms resting flat on Stiles' stomach and he sighs as he wiggles closer, his legs seeking out Derek's ankles. Derek obliges him, smile pressed to the nape of Stiles' neck. The skin there is soft and warm and vulnerable, just the way Derek remembers, and he breathes deep, through his nose, filling his chest with Stiles' scent. 

But out of the corner of his eye, he sees the peak of Stiles' shoulder, not as bony as Derek remembers, and he frowns. Carefully, he slips his hand from underneath Stiles' and starts the not-so-arduous task of relearning Stiles' body; tracing two months of changes with the palm of his hand and the tips of his fingers. 

He notices first the sag of Stiles' boxers, slipping over his hip. Sure, the waistband is a little ragged, loose from typical boyish wear and tear and repeated washings, but Stiles is leaner here, too. The jut of his hip sharper, fitting more snug in the palm of Derek's hand. He presses his fingers there, feeling for the bone underneath. Stiles rolls into the touch, legs falling open for Derek to slip his knee between.

His palm slides up, following the nip of Stiles' waist, deeper than it was before, less meaty. Derek peeks down to look at it, and the way his hand nestles there, in between the flare of Stiles' hips and his rib cage, both of them exaggerated by his narrow waist, the skin smooth and not as pale.

Pushing the t-shirt up, Derek's fingers trace the ladder of Stiles' ribs, following each bump and groove until they fade under firm tight muscle and lightly-furred skin. He scratches his fingers through the hair, familiar and easy, and smiles at Stiles' sleepy gasp, Derek's fingernails catching on a nipple. The hair he remembers, what with the way Stiles would go on and on about "being a real boy," but the quiet strength he does not. Derek wonders where Stiles earned it and wishes he could've been there to see it.

He moves on to Stiles' arms, the biceps slimmer, firmer. Derek closes his fingers around one and finds that though his middle and forefinger still don't touch, they're closer together, the muscle underneath them shifting with ease. There's a visible vein, too. Derek follows its trail down to Stiles' wrist, thumbnail dragging lightly along the way. 

This brings him to Stiles' hand and Derek takes it in his, bringing it up to rest flat on the bed, next to the other, in front of Stiles' mouth. The soft warm hands that, over the course of two years, learned how to remove bullets and spears and bolts; how to clean and close wounds; how to mix potions and cast spells; how to tear Derek apart and put him back together? They are not what Derek is looking at now. Though the stains of dirt and ash and blood remain, what Derek sees now are all knuckles and calluses, nicks and scrapes and paper cuts. They are the hands of a hard-working college student who stays up too late and works too hard and doesn't spare a second to think about himself because he doesn't _have_ a spare second. Or anybody to take care of him the way he seems to take care of the rest of the world.

Derek knows this was the plan; that Stiles went away to college specifically to grow and change on his own. To have as normal a life as it was possible for him to have, for a given value of 'normal'. That, in some ways, it was a gift to his dad, who is still wary about Stiles and Derek's relationship at best, and scared of the life Stiles now leads at worst.

But what Derek didn't expect were so many changes all at once. Not so _fast_. 

Stiles' breathing shifts, and him along with it, pulling away from Derek to lay on his stomach, hands shoved under the pillow. Derek follows the movement, blanketing Stiles with his body, nose tucked behind Stiles' ear where the skin is warm and soft and only ever smells like him, no matter where he's been. He breathes in deep, pressing in close. 

Stiles hums a contented sigh into the pillow, legs scissoring open and closed underneath the sheets. Derek tries to keep his own legs clear to give Stiles room to wake up on his own, but Stiles seems determined to trap one of Derek's ankles, his heel bumping up against Derek's shin until Derek gives up. His huffed laugh stirs the soft short hairs behind Stiles' ear. 

"You're hot," Stiles slurs, tongue lazy from sleep. He rounds his back a little, pushing into Derek's chest, then stretches out again, nuzzling his face into the pillow. His eyes aren't open yet, his eyelashes a thick dark smudge on his cheek. Stiles is smiling, though, a glint of white behind pink lips. Under the pillow, Derek can hear Stiles' fingers rubbing the mattress; a pointless movement that is the essence of Stiles.

"So I've been told," Derek murmurs, low, directly into Stiles' ear. He's rewarded with a full body shiver and a small groan from Stiles. 

" _Not_ what I meant," Stiles shoots back, nudging his elbow into Derek's chest, but his smile widens; Derek can feel Stiles' cheek move.

"Yes you did." Derek moves south, his teeth dragging along Stiles' neck and shoulder, the spur of his shoulder blade. Though his teeth are blunted by thin cotton, there's still enough there to make Stiles' skin shudder and twitch.

Humming, Stiles wriggles under Derek's weight, using his elbows and knees to make room for him to roll onto his back. He only opens his eyes once he's settled, nestling his head into the pillow so he can look up at Derek, eyes wide and shiny. "Hi," Stiles says, voice soft and sweet, pitched low in the quiet.

Propped up on his forearms, Derek looks him over; takes in the crinkles at the corners of Stiles' eyes and the bridge of his nose, the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks, the sheen of sweat in the divot of Stiles' upper lip. His hand is close to Stiles' chin and he brushes his thumb over the skin; there's stubble there, short and scratchy. Nowhere near close to anything Derek grows without even trying, but it's as new as the rest of Stiles. Different.

He kisses Stiles, then, slow, drugging kisses that ignore stale morning breath in favor of tasting Stiles again. Of pressing him into the bed and learning how this new body of Stiles' will fit against his own. Stiles doesn't seem to mind, with his hands sliding along Derek's biceps to his shoulders, around his nape and up into the hair. He seems to be doing the same thing Derek did: cataloguing. Re-learning. 

"Missed you too," Stiles exhales, after Derek stops for a breath. Derek's hands slide into Stiles' hair and he drags his tongue over Stiles' stubble.

"I miss your fuzz," Derek says, and he does, a little bit. How soft it was against his palm, his neck. His belly and thighs. And though it meant he didn't have anything to fist his hands into when Stiles would blow him, it did mean he would see the angry red marks his nails would make, dragging along Stiles' scalp as he teased and tortured and made Derek wait.

"No, you don't," Stiles says, smug. Derek clenches a handful just to hear the thick sound Stiles makes deep in his throat, and tugs, making Stiles' throat arch, his Adam's apple bob. Derek sets his teeth there, careful, and licks over the skin.

Okay, maybe he doesn't.

Stiles eases his legs out from where they're tangled with Derek's, which brings Derek closer, hips settling neatly between Stiles' thighs. He gasps at the new weight, the pressure on his cock, and Derek rocks into it once, twice. Derek can already feel the damp heat through the two layers of cotton and presses his grin into Stiles' neck; moves his hips again to feel the gasp against his skin.

"You're _hot_ ," Stiles says again, a slight whine, and he can't lie still. His hands slide up and down Derek's back and arms, his legs hook around Derek's waist and thighs. He's hard and restless and keeps trying to angle in for more kisses, but Derek has skin to mark up and he knows how much better it will be if Stiles is made to wait for a little bit.

All of Stiles' wriggling is good for something, though. Soon his t-shirt is rucked up enough that they're skin to skin and the soft dry slide of their bellies together fizzes in Derek's blood. He ruts hard into Stiles, catching his choked off moan with a sharp, bruising kiss. 

"Off off _off_ ," Stiles mumbles into Derek's mouth, his heel battering Derek's calf until Derek props himself up on his palms, giving Stiles room to peel the rest of his shirt off. This, at least, is familiar: Stiles, in all his excitement and the typical horny stupor, getting himself tangled up in something so simple as a t-shirt, the hem caught on his bony elbows while his hands flail about for purchase. Or help.

Derek doesn't bother hiding his chuckle, and takes advantage of Stiles' predicament by leaning down to brush his stubble over Stiles' nipples, soothing the sting with his wet mouth and clever tongue. 

Stiles' moans are muffled by cotton, but Derek still manages to get the point.

"This whole sex thing is going to be way less sexy if I suffocate to death," Stiles says, arms stilling. Derek rakes his teeth over one nipple and along Stiles' ribs, but his hand slides in the opposite direction, over tricep and forearm, pushing the shirt up as he goes, until, finally, Stiles is free. Red-faced and dark-eyed, but free.

Stiles' hands fall to Derek's shoulders, nails digging in, and he pulls; it's nowhere near enough force to make Derek move if he didn't really want to, but Stiles' mouth is red and wet and shiny and Derek really likes keeping it that way. Stiles likes it, too, his nails biting into Derek's skin, dragging down his biceps. 

Stiles kisses like he still can't believe he gets to do this with Derek, all broken noises and clever tongue, muscular legs wrapped around Derek's waist, slim fingers pushing through Derek's hair, pulling Derek close. Keeping him in place. Stiles kisses until he can't breathe, until Derek stops feeling the rise and fall of Stiles' chest against his and he's the one who has to pull back. Not far; with Stiles wrapped around him, it's never far. Enough for their open mouths to bump together, for Derek to tuck his nose close to Stiles' and drag in warm damp air, for Stiles' gasps to puff over Derek's cheek. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Derek says, letting a little more of his weight rest on top of Stiles, solid and reassuring. 

"I know, I know," Stiles gasps, still desperate for air. "I just. It's been a long week and--" he swallows hard, the click of it loud in the morning quiet. His legs slip from Derek's hips to hook around Derek's calves and he rolls his hips. "And I didn't realize how much I'd missed this." He says the last part quieter, presses it to the skin of Derek's temple as if to keep it from reaching his ear. 

Derek sucks a kiss into Stiles' neck, right over the pulse. The blood pounds hot against Derek's tongue, thick and vital and too fast. It keeps him from saying the things he wants to say, the things Stiles doesn't need to hear. _Can't_ hear because if Derek said them, if he asked him to -- not even begged, simply said, "then stay" -- Stiles would. He _would_. Because Derek asked him to. Because Derek needs him. Because, maybe, there's a part of Stiles that needs Derek. 

But Derek knows there's a bigger part of Stiles that needs normalcy. That Stiles' dad needs it, too. And Derek won't be the one to take that away from them. He can't be that selfish. 

So he kisses Stiles, cages him in with his forearms and ruts against him, their cocks grinding together through two layers of flimsy cotton. It's good, it's good, it's _so_ good. Warm skin and long legs and greedy hands pulling at Derek's hair. Stiles wriggling underneath him and his palms skating along Derek's back, pushing into the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

The cool air feels good on his exposed skin, Stiles' hands warming him in little patches; his hip, his chest. The bend of his elbow and the side of his face. His hands, like the rest of Stiles, never stay still for too long, are too intent to touch Derek everywhere.

Derek, on the other hand, likes to be thorough. Likes to explore with all his senses, not just touch. He measures the length of Stiles' collarbone with his tongue, dips his nose into Stiles' armpit and breathes deep (which always makes Stiles giggle and writhe; who knew that could be hot). He drags his beard over Stiles' chest and belly, his hands spanning slim hips and sliding, pulling Stiles' boxer briefs down, down, then shimmies the rest of the way out of his own, too.

Stiles is hard, wet and leaking, red at the tip. Eyes locked on Derek's, Stiles' hand drifts down, fingertips skimming along his cock until he reaches the base. Derek stops him before Stiles can give himself a firm squeeze, licks the precome from Stiles' fingers, then leans down to lick along the crease of Stiles' hip. It's a tease, he knows it and Stiles knows it, but the scent here is overpowering, and Derek wants to take his time. Wants Stiles to splinter apart so Derek can put him back together again.

Stiles groans under the drag of Derek's tongue, torques his hips toward Derek's mouth and pushes his fingers into Derek's hair, hoping to guide him where Stiles wants him. Derek chuckles, low, and says, "Has that ever worked before?" He looks up at Stiles through his lashes as he sucks a bruise into Stiles' thigh, turns the skin there rosy with his beard.

"There's always a first time," Stiles pants, all restless legs and heaving chest. His eyes are so, so dark, his face and chest splotchy red. His hair is a mess, too, from both sleep and Derek's eager fingers. 

Derek grins around the pinch of skin caught between his teeth. "Not with this there isn't."

Stiles whines Derek's name, eyes rolling into the back of his head. "You're going to kill me with this one day, you know that right?"

Derek attempts a shrug, one of Stiles' legs rising and falling with the motion, and licks at the thin skin behind Stiles' balls. He basks in the scent here, so thick and heady and purely _Stiles_ that Derek thinks he could get drunk on it. 

He noses at Stiles' balls, chasing the scent, licking and sucking at Stiles' skin until Stiles is nothing more than a writhing, whimpering mess. And then, _then_ he moves up, drags his warm wet tongue along the underside of Stiles' cock, teases the slit with the tip of his tongue, then sucks Stiles down until he hits the back of Derek's throat. Derek makes a pleased noise at the resulting yelp-slash-flailing limbs combination.

Derek stays like that, humming quietly around Stiles with his hand flat on Stiles' pelvis, keeping him in place. Even with his blood rushing in his ears, Derek can hear the wild thudding of Stiles' heart, the breathless whispers he can't contain. Even the rasp of coarse hair against his palm. He scratches his fingernails through that hair, knowing how sensitive Stiles is there, and is rewarded with a sticky pulse of precome and the hitch of Stiles' hips.

Derek starts moving, then. Pulls up slow to suck lightly at the head, then sinks back down until his lips meet his fist. He keeps the rhythm smooth and wet, watching Stiles through his lashes each time he hollows his cheeks.

Stiles' hands are still in Derek's hair, and they're not gentle about it either. The scrape of fingernails on his scalp makes Derek's eyes water and, sometimes, when Derek's tongue traces the vein and teases the bundle of nerves at the head, Stiles tugs too hard. But Derek doesn't care. Each pull sparks low in his gut, making his dick throb until he grinds into the bed for a little relief. 

He listens carefully to Stiles' heart, to the rush of blood and the choked-off gasp that signals Stiles' orgasm. It comes sooner than he'd like, but Derek supposes that's to be expected, in a way. Still, he tightens his grip on Stiles and spends a few extra seconds teasing at Stiles' slit. Doesn't stop until Stiles sobs his name and comes perilously close to kicking Derek in the groin. 

"You are a goddamn _tease_ ," Stiles pants, desperate for air. His unfocused eyes follow Derek's slow rise, and his hands drop to the bed, fisting in the twisted up sheets as Derek jacks him off, tight and slow, but doesn't answer him because they both know it's true. 

As much as Derek doesn't want to stop touching Stiles, he needs to get the lube from the drawer. It's an awkward knee-walk up the bed to the nightstand, his cock bobbing against his stomach, but Stiles wraps a hand around Derek's ankle and squeezes, and at least Derek is facing away from Stiles so he can hide his smile, the fond look in his eyes. 

Lube in hand, he stretches out next to Stiles and leans in to kiss him, his free hand falling in a possessive spread on the inside of Stiles' thigh. His fingers slip back, brushing the crease of Stiles' ass, and dip between the cheeks, dry and bold. Stiles pushes his hips into the touch while still clinging to Derek's biceps, his neck, kissing and kissing and kissing him. 

Derek swallows the little disgruntled noise Stiles makes when Derek removes his hand, then smiles into Stiles' humming once it returns, wet with lube. Stiles' legs open wider, his hips tilt up, and the first brush of cool fingers makes him jolt. 

Stiles opens up slow, Derek keeping his touches to light, barely-there passes over Stiles' hole until Stiles growls and digs his fingertips into Derek's arm. "Quit being a dick," he grunts, teeth sunk into his lip as he moves his hips, searching for a firmer touch.

"It's been awhile," Derek answers, low. It sort of feels like they have this argument every time they fuck, but at least Derek has a new reason to go slow. And if it's not the truth, well, it's not like Stiles can hear the lie.

But Stiles, of course, never gives up without a fight.

"And yet I'm not any more breakable now than I was two months ago, now _move_." 

Derek leans in to nip at Stiles' disgruntled frown at the same time he pushes his finger in, and he's rewarded with a sharp gasp, Stiles' eyes rolling back, and a low moan deep in Stiles' throat.

"S'good," Stiles slurs against Derek's lips. His hips are moving, riding Derek's finger and, out of the corner of his eye, Derek can see the slight bob of Stiles' cock, drooling precome into the hollow of his stomach. The salt-bitter smell of it heavy in the air. 

Patience not being Stiles' strong suit, he urges Derek into using a second finger long before Derek thinks he's ready. But he keeps nudging Derek's chin with his nose, dragging his teeth over the stubble until Derek's vibrating from the sound and feel of it, and he adds a second finger just to get Stiles to _stop_. 

He does, thankfully, whining out a breath while he adjusts to the added pressure. It gives Derek time to focus on the tight hot clench of him. The fact that while Stiles' body has hardened in some places, he's still soft and yielding here.

Derek wonders, sometimes, how it can be so _easy_. The few times he says it out loud, without even meaning to, Stiles gives him a look and a snort. Says, "There is nothing about this --" waves a hand between the two of them "-- that is easy."

In the grander sense, Stiles is right. Of course he is. But when it's just the two of them, when it's Stiles' body opening so readily for Derek, Stiles is utterly, _completely_ wrong. 

"C'mon," Stiles says in breathless little pants, legs moving up and down on the bed. His hand is clenched tight in Derek's hair, holding him so close that all Derek can see is the swell of Stiles' cheek and the thick fan of his lashes. His temples are throbbing, hot against Derek's lips and, if Derek angles himself just right, he can see red, kiss-bitten lips and skin pink from beard burn. 

"Come _on_ ," Stiles says again, almost a growl, and yanks Derek's head away in an effort to move himself and get his legs around Derek. Carefully, Derek pulls his fingers out, pinches Stiles' earlobe between sharp canines for his impatience, and slots himself neatly between Stiles' legs.

He doesn't move at first, letting his weight keep Stiles in place while he kisses Stiles, all teeth and tongue and fight for dominance. Stiles is hot to the touch, fairly vibrating with need, and Derek stretches himself out full length so he can feel it all, everywhere.

Stiles is unwilling to keep still though, clings to Derek's hips with bent knees and rolls up, their dicks sliding easily through the mess of their sweat and precome. It drags a moan out of Derek, a sound that makes Stiles huff a laugh, and he does it again. His cock brushing against Derek's sets off sparks behind Derek's eyes.

Propping himself up on one forearm, Derek reaches down with his free hand to smear his palm over the tip of his dick and along the length, slicking himself up and working the foreskin back and forth a few times while he gathers his senses. 

Stiles doesn't give him long, canting his hips up, one heel digging into Derek's ass. His hand hovers somewhere near Derek's hip and he looks at Derek with hooded eyes as he says, "Don't make me use this." He wiggles his fingers against Derek's skin for effect.

Derek drags his teeth hard over one of Stiles' nipples, making Stiles arch off the bed in a shuddery gasp. It's enough distraction for Derek to line himself up and push in, slow and steady because Stiles is nowhere near open enough, but Derek knows that's what Stiles wants; the sweet-sharp edge of pain, the reminder the next day that he is still so very human.

Stiles comes back to himself fairly quickly, eyes and mouth wide open, making small hitching grunts until Derek is in him all the way, pelvis to pelvis. While Stiles pants through the first awkward moments, Derek looks down between them, thumbs at Stiles' red, stretched rim. Stiles is still slick with lube, but so, so hot now. Skin taut and gleaming. He whines under Derek's stroking thumb, legs searching for purchase on Derek's sweat-slick hips. Derek cups his hand under Stiles' knee then, holds it in place as he rocks out and then back in once, twice, smiling at Stiles' shredded, "Jesus _fuck_. Get _over_ here."

Derek does, leaning in closer so Stiles can capture his mouth in a sloppy excuse for a kiss; more like their open mouths bumping together more than anything, Derek's teeth catching on Stiles' lush upper lip. His grip on Stiles' knee keeps slipping, so he slides his arm underneath until Stiles' leg is tucked neatly in the bend of Derek's elbow. He can feel the vibrating strain of Stiles' over-stretched thigh and moves his hand lower, nearer to Stiles' hip.

"Thanks," Stiles punches out, breathing through the slow thrust of Derek's hips. His hands are wrapped around Derek's neck, blunt fingernails scratching over the short hairs there as a new sheen of sweat breaks out over his temples and forehead, the divot above his lip. Derek sucks at it, warm slick flesh captured between his lips, and feels it when Stiles grins, his breaths coming easier. 

It takes patience and persistence for Stiles to relax into it, and Derek really doesn't mind. Stiles' heat is incredible, his grip on Derek's dick unreal, and whenever Derek hits Stiles' prostate -- which Derek usually tries to avoid in the beginning -- Stiles always makes these gorgeous needy little noises, whimpering around the teeth dug into his lip. 

Eventually, though, Stiles turns bossy (surprise, surprise), his dark intense eyes demanding Derek "fucking _move_ already." And Derek _is_ , but this is good, too; pushing into Stiles harder, hips working Derek in deep, until the loudest sound in the room is the obscene slap of skin on skin, louder even than Derek's grunts or Stiles' broken words and stuttered moans.

Even in this -- no, _especially_ in this -- Stiles can't keep his mouth shut. Not that Derek minds.

Derek angles himself up a little bit, away from the sweaty heat of Stiles' body, and is rewarded with a surprised yelp. He's found the angle he was looking for, and a hand slipped underneath Stiles' back helps, too, canting his hips down so that Derek is nailing Stiles' prostate more than he isn't, making Stiles shiver and shake.

The sounds coming out of Stiles' mouth now are mostly wrecked syllables of Derek's name, but _fuck_ is thrown in there for good measure, and a few _oh god, oh gods_ as well. Which is about as speechless as Stiles ever gets.

Derek's close, too, the heat building low in his spine, coiling tighter and tighter. Stiles comes first -- he always does -- but especially now, Derek bringing Stiles to the edge first with the blow job. He clings to Derek's shoulder and his wrist, gasping wetly as his cock stripes his chest and belly. Derek slows himself through it, gently rocking his hips until Stiles is a sticky twitching mess, too blissed out to even tell Derek when he's too over-sensitive. 

Derek stills, then, kisses Stiles slow and careful, hardly any tongue. Sucks at Stiles' lower lip until he hears a little moan, feels a palm cup his cheek; Stiles' way of giving Derek permission to continue. 

Gathering Stiles close, Derek sits back on his heels, Stiles' legs falling to either side of Derek's knees. Stiles is limp-heavy, but warm, and smelling so much like himself Derek's lungs burn with it. He has enough sense, at least, to wrap his noodle-like arms around Derek's neck and tucks his face into Derek's neck, his breath hot and damp. Derek hums his approval as his hands fall to Stiles' narrow hips.

It doesn't take him long; Stiles is coherent enough to grip Derek tight _everywhere_ , and all it really takes is half a dozen firm shoves of Stiles' hips for Derek to come, teeth digging into the skin over Stiles' pulse so he doesn't let out a roar of satisfaction. Stiles is mewling in his ear, fists clenching and unclenching against his shoulder blades, and he sighs, relieved, at the last sticky spurt of come inside him.

It takes what's left of Derek's coordination to carefully lower Stiles to the bed, his body ragdoll limp. Stiles manages a sad, weak groan, though, when Derek's cock slips out of him, leaving behind a cooling mess of come and lube. Derek thumbs at a smear on Stiles' thigh, rubbing it into the skin.

"Why are werewolves so _gross_?" Stiles mumble-whines, clutching at Derek's shoulder to pull him closer. Derek leans down instead, dragging the flat of his tongue along Stiles' cock. He keeps the touch soft and wet, but Stiles twitches anyway, still over-sensitized, fingers tightening their grip. Derek chuckles, low, and moves further up, clearing a path on Stiles' stomach.

"Case in point," Stiles groans, waving a limp hand at Derek's head. Derek butts against it and Stiles takes the hint, spearing his fingers through Derek's hair to scratch at the scalp. Each drag sends a series of shivers down Derek's spine, all the way to his toes. 

Derek reaches for the box of kleenex on the nightstand to perform a quick clean-up of Stiles' stomach, then settles himself close, one arm slung over Stiles' pelvis, his head pillowed on Stiles' belly. The skin there is warm, still, and with Stiles unable to stop moving, Derek's eyes droop, his nose and mouth filled with the scent and taste of Stiles.

He enjoys the quiet; Stiles is only ever this quiet after sex, and though Derek honestly doesn't mind Stiles' need to talk and talk and _talk_ (it comes in handy about as equally often as it doesn't), there is comfort in the silence, a contentment Derek doesn't often get to savour. In these few precious moments, Derek focuses on Stiles' slowing heartbeat, his rushing blood, the in-and-out woosh of his lungs. He's warm and the skin on his hip is still soft and Derek takes all of that in.

It never lasts long, though. Derek can tell Stiles tries to fight it off for as long as possible, with his antsy wriggling and shifting legs. Eventually, his hand drops from Derek's head to his back and the slim, calloused fingers trace random abstract patterns through the sweat between Derek's shoulder blades. 

"I like what you've done with the place," Stiles rasps out, voice still sandy-rough. "I'm sorry I haven't been here to help finish."

Derek drags his knuckles over Stiles' hips a few times, stalling for words. That the house is nearly complete is all Stiles' doing to begin with. If he hadn't spent the better part of two years nudging Derek into getting his GED and applying to a community college, then demolishing and finding a contractor to rebuild the Hale house, Derek would probably still be living out of the old subway car, his betas losing respect for him a little more each day.

"You helped enough," Derek says eventually, meaning it. "All that's left is grunt work, anyway. And decorating."

"At least I helped you pick out a bed before I left. And some bedding. And _paint_." 

The room is sparse, Derek can admit, with only the bed, a club chair, and an area rug to make it feel even vaguely homey, but it's enough. For now.

"Erica wants to pick out all the furniture. She won't let me have any say at all." He doesn't mean to sound petulant, but Stiles' body shivers out a soundless laugh anyway.

"Speaking of, where are the kids?"

Derek stays silent a minute, attention focused on what Stiles is drawing on his back. He thinks they might be numbers. Or letters. Chemistry formulas, maybe. "Had Boyd take them into the mountains for the weekend."

Stiles' fingers still for a moment, then start moving again, knuckles trailing up and down the line of Derek's spine. "You told him to bring them back alive, right?"

Derek shifts his shoulders, the best shrug he can pull off while lying down, and says, "Told him to use his judgement. I trust him."

"Which means Jackson has about a fifty-fifty chance of survival," Stiles huffs, trying to stifle a laugh. His body shakes with it, though, and Derek gives his stomach an admonishing nip.

"What time is it?" Stiles asks. There is no clock in the room, and even if there was, Stiles is still too blissed out to be able to open his eyes and focus. Fortunately, Derek's pretty good at being able to tell the time without a clock. Being a werewolf does have its mundane perks, after all.

"About 6:30."

Stiles groans, rolling onto his side to curve around Derek's head and shoulders. "Why so _early_? You are so, so cruel." He buries his face in Derek's nape, nose cool against the skin, and licks at the sweat there, fingers sliding down to grip Derek's hip. With his other hand, he drags the top sheet over them both. 

Derek doesn't last long in the suffocating heat, worming his way up the bed, despite Stiles' annoyed mumbling. He drags his palm up the length of Stiles' back and urges him closer, until his face is tucked against Derek's collar bone. Stiles makes a soft, pleased sound and wiggles closer. 

"We have to meet your dad for breakfast at ten," Derek says, quiet, before Stiles' breathing can even out and he falls asleep. 

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles says, smacking his lips. "I haven't been away long enough to forget you won't go back to sleep. Creeper." He peeks one eye open and peers up, smiling, at Derek.

Derek kisses him, hand cradling Stiles' skull. It's a soft, sleepy hello sort of kiss, their lips clinging together even as they part for air. It's warm and familiar and Derek could do it all day if Stiles were patient enough.

But he's not. He's really, _really_ not, judging by the wide sour yawn he tries to direct away from Derek's face. It doesn't actually work, but Derek appreciates the effort; murmurs, "Go back to sleep," in Stiles' ear and massages Stiles' scalp with firm fingertips until he does.


End file.
